Madeline wanted to type Anna’s mother’s letter into Google to get it translated on the spot, but I shot her down. I’d once used an online translation site to help me write a paragraph for Spanish class, and my teacher gave me a 62. This letter was way too important for a translation that was 62 percent of the way there. “Besides,” I said to Madeline, “this is the last letter Anna ever received from her mother. That’s a very personal thing.” The most personal thing in the world, I thought. If my birth mother had written me a letter like this, there’s no way I’d want its contents typed into Google, even seventy-five years from now. “Having it translated by a machine just feels . . . wrong.”
“Okay,” she said. “But who do we know who knows French?”
I tried not to smile as I answered. “Ethan.”
“Imani. No offense, because I know you guys have a . . . thing going on. But, Ethan? You don’t trust Google, but you trust a seventh grader who started learning French in September?”
“No, not Ethan himself,” I assured her. “I was thinking he could ask his teacher.”
Madeline’s shoulders went down as she gave in. “I guess that could work. Text him.”
Ethan came through for me once again. He suggested giving the letter to the student teacher in his French class, and once I met her, I knew she was the perfect person for this project. She was small and well-dressed, with her nails painted orange. Her English was fluent, but she had a thick French accent, which made sense because she grew up in France and only moved to America for college. Ethan took me to meet her during lunch, and she was eating a salad and a big, crusty piece of baguette. In other words, she was French through and through. I could just tell she would approach the contents of the letter with care and, well, humanness—the total opposite of a computer algorithm.
And get this: Her name was Mme. Veronique. So similar to Mme. Veron, Anna’s French teacher in Brooklyn! That was a sign so clear, no one could deny it, even Madeline, who didn’t believe in signs.
I brought the letter to school the next day, and Mme. Veronique allowed me to come with her into the teachers’ lounge while she photocopied it, so that I didn’t have to let it out of my sight. She carefully folded the original back into its envelope and gave it to me.
“I will translate for you tonight, yes?”
“That would be awesome,” I said. “I mean, if you have time.” I don’t know why I was so nervous. “Just as soon as you can, I guess.”
“I can see it is special, this letter,” Mme. Veronique said with a smile.
“Oh man,” I said with a sigh. “You have no idea.”